Bittersweet
by Yr Alban
Summary: The words, the syllables and punctuations, they are bittersweet on his tongue, like dark chocolate or black tea with a scoop of sugar.


**Copyright infringement not intended.  
><strong>**A/N: DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO WRITE THESE TWO? Yeah, you all probably do. It's a killer. I can't remember any involvement between the two in the show - like, one on one. I'm forgetting what Rumpel/Gold sounds like. OHGOD. I need OUAT. Enjoy, my loves.  
>Post 1x13, pre 1x14?<strong>

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><p>¤ Bittersweet ¤<p>

_and i'm ready to  
>s u f f e r.<em>

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><p>The boy's smile is lit with hope and endless possibilities; he ventures closer, worn and dog-eared book tucked beneath his arm. Like his mother - his real mother - he is foolishly brave. Though, unlike the firecracker that is Emma Swan, her son's expression wavers between confidence and fear - fear of <em>him<em>, fear of what he would do.

Gold resists the urge to snort; like he'd ever hit a child. Cruel and ruthless he may be, both in this life and the one before it, he has never struck a child. He watches the boy instead, tracking his entry as the little bell chimes merrily.

Henry creeps closer still, his hazel eyes sweeping across the store with a combination of awe and fright only a child can achieve before landing on him. His Adam's apple bobs, the only obvious sign of anxiety. "G'morning, Mr Gold," the boy greets warily.

Now, he finds himself holding back a grin. Despite Henry's apprehension, his excitement is still clear. If anything, it is only made more visible by his worry. "Good morning, Mr Mills." Gold replies, his tongue curling over the title just as his lips twitch into a reluctant smile. "Has anyth-." He pauses, noting how the boy trembles slightly. His smile slips, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth downward. "Something the matter?"

He has no familial connection to him, no matter what Regina thinks.

Still - if the witch has done something to him, he would not hesitate in telling the Sheriff.

Henry glances behind him, to the near empty streets of Storybrooke. Granny ambles by, looking quite at peace. The lad turns back to him, a new edge to his quivering grin. "My mom's _really_ upset," he whispers conspiratorially, as though it's a secret, only meant for their ears.

Unease settles in the pit of Gold's gut, churning the contents of his stomach into a nauseating mess. This is the Curse-Breaker's boy, the child who believes in magic like older men have believed in swords or guns - but surely, _surely_, he can't know. Gold clears his throat. "One would imagine. Being the Sheriff, she -."

"_No_." Henry interrupts him with a vehement tone. His eyes have grown wide and they burn with an almost tangible urgency. "Not Emma - the Evil Queen. And she was acting weird before Katherine went missing." His nose crinkles and his fingers trace the beaten binding of his fairytale book.

Gold circles out from behind the counter, moving to the hollow gold vase and the wilting rose within it. He feels Henry's eyes following him, anxiously, confidently. "The Evil Queen?" he echoes, tossing a haphazard glance at the boy. "That would be... Regina, I presume?"

It's meant as a joke but Henry nods quickly and hugs his book to his chest.

Regina. The witch, the mayor. She wouldn't have told her adopted son about his true identity, Gold is certain of that. The less Henry and Emma, as the boy tells the woman everything, know, the easier it is for the former Queen to keep her curse intact. Again, he has to swallow a derisive laugh - by trying to keep her son in the dark, Regina has brought herself into the spotlight.

Still... the uneasiness in the bottom of his stomach has begun to grow, _what if_'s spinning themselves into life in his mind. He's not sure if he likes where this conversation is going to.

"You don't need to be scared." The boy states, his voice bringing Gold from his thoughts. He turns to him, alarm strengthening his blooming unease. Henry's grin has returned, full force. "I won't tell anyone. Besides," his shoulders dip and rise in a helpless shrug. "I already sorta had you figured out."

Gold's eyes drop to the faded tome. Pressed between the delicate pages, he knows, is his life story - every citizen of Storybrooke's life story; the truth, hidden in plain sight and carried by a clever boy. "I'm afraid you've lost me," he informs Henry, looking back to the dark-haired child, his lips curling into his atypical crooked smile. He produces a small cloth from his pocket and returns to the flower, beginning to rub at the spotless vase. "As for your mother, well..."

He can't tell him the truth - he can't say that Regina is cold and heartless and Henry means as much to her as her father did, and look where her father is _now_? No, he can't give the boy the truth, but he can't lie either.

"You know, though, right?" Henry asks; he can hear the dark-haired child step closer to him, he can feel the anxiety and raw excitement buzzing through him and into the stagnant air of his shop. The gold offers a distorted reflection of the boy, his grin wide enough to split his face in two. "You remember who you are?"

Of course he does - he's the one that came with the Godsbedamned curse, wasn't he? He holds back another snort, focusing on his polishing. "I'm Mr Gold, boy," he answers. "I assure you, that's all I've ever been and that's all I'll ever be." He flashes a wry smile at Henry.

The latter deflates marginally, rocking back on his heels. Disappointment flickers at the corners of his mouth and shadows his bright eyes, but otherwise he seems just as determined as before. "Last week, on our way home from the station, my mom was talking about deals - she seemed really pleased with herself, but sort of angry and scared..." he trails off and then, like switching a light on, the boy blazes back to life. "So I thought about who the Evil Queen was most afraid of - who had more power than her."

An uncomfortable silence descends upon them, as sweltering and heavy as quilt in August; it is a pause born of waiting and words unsaid. A smirk tweaks Gold's lips out of their crooked grin, imperceptibly small. This boy, the Curse-Breakers son, the Phoenix child, is more perceptive than Regina or Emma could have possibly hoped.

"And?" he questions, turning to face the boy once more. Henry flinches, as if he were expecting Gold to him hit or yell. "Who is the _Evil Queen_ afraid of?" The title tastes as it always has, poisonous and bitter. Perhaps he deserves the poison, for he doesn't plan to agree or tell the boy anything; he's just leading him along, foolishly, stupidly.

Henry brightens. "Oh," he says. "That's easy - Rumpelstiltskin."

It turns out it doesn't matter what his plans were or had been. Gold still flinches at the sound of his name, his fingers still curl tighter around the damp polishing cloth. His heart still stutters to the dark drumbeat of the once-upon-a-time moniker, his breath still catches.

The damn boy sees it all, of course. His smile slowly widens, an impossible feat, and triumph and awe take their place in his eyes. "You _do_ -." The shop's bell jingles happily as Emma Swan slips inside, her own expression of parental relief and fear glowing on her face.

"_Henry!_" the woman cries hoarsely, her breathing short and shallow. She crosses the expanse between her and her son quickly, wrapping spindly arms around the boy; Emma holds onto him tightly, not letting him go until her breath has returned to normal and she doesn't look quite as pale. When she releases him, she spins to face Gold, her eyes narrowing and her lips thinning.

Gold nods respectfully, pocketing his cloth again. "Sheriff Swan," he greets amicably, returning to his spot behind the counter. "Your boy and I were just having a little conversation." He glances at Henry, who still looks triumphant and proud. The forgotten unease swells into existence; bile coats his throat. What has he done; what has happened?

What will change?

Emma looks at her son, her hand resting lightly on the boy's shoulder, and brings her eyes back to Gold. "Were you, now." she states dryly. "Henry, you're late for school. Mary Margaret said she'd stall for you as long as possible but..." The Curse-Breaker shrugs, gaze jumping quickly from Henry to Gold and then back again. "C'mon, I'll walk with you." She holds out her hand.

Henry nods now, taking his birth-mother's hand. "Alright." he agrees in the tone all children have when talking about school - deflated and dejected. He looks back at Gold, his smile tamer. "Bye, Mr Gold."

Gold forces a smile; it tugs at his cheeks and pulls against his teeth uncomfortably. "Have a good day, Henry, Sheriff Swan." he nods at Emma again.

She nods in return. "You, too, Gold," she replies with a half-smile, towing Henry out of the shop. Gold watches them walk pass by the storefront, mother and son chatting pleasantly as they begin their day together. When they are out of his field of vision, he slumps forward, sighing heavily.

The boy knows. His adopted mother knows. By now, his birth mother will know. He has never felt so weak; so hopeless and vulnerable in this life - not even when his house was broken into and robbed, or when Regina taunted him on the otherside of the cell's bars.

It will do no good to mope and sulk - he _knows_ that - so he pulls away from the counter, his bad knee protesting in the form of a soft _crack_. He grimaces at the dull pain, what his lameness signifies, and all but topples over when the door flies open. The little bell is wrenched from the screws that hold it in place, falling to the floor with a pathetic chime.

Henry rushes in, one hand rummaging for something in his winter coat's pocket, the other clinging to his backpack's strap. His hair is messy and his cheeks are red from the cold and exertion, but - like always - his hazel eyes are bright with life and energy and endless hope. He brings his hand out from his puffy pocket and slides something across the glass countertop. The boy grins wildly at him before he races out of the shop, yelling, "I'm coming, Emma!"

Gold frowns at the torn paper.

Five single digits head the note, each number bold and big. Below, written in the messy scrawl of a child, are six words. An impossibly small message, insignificant and meaningless if anyone else is to happen across it. But to him, they are the world; the crudely figured letters form words that burn and smolder with hope and rage, words that promise and take away.

He must... He has to. Just to make them real - if this is a dream, he must know now. His eyes skip across the words, his lips moving, sounding out the consonants and vowels tentatively.

"She's safe. She's alive. Hospital. Go."

The words, the syllables and punctuations, they are bittersweet on his tongue. Like dark chocolate or black tea with a scoop of sugar. They taste - they feel - _real_.

The pawnshop closes early that day.

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><p><em>and i'm ready to<br>h o p e._

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><p><strong>Oh my. Oh, it's only 1 844 words but ... <strong>_**damn**_**, that took a lot out of me. I had to go back (stupidstupidstupid, you don't go back while you're writing) and edit things and then I got confused about how it should end, if it would end. As it is, I find the last line weak.**

**Ah, well. Toe-may-to, ta-mah-toe, po-tay-toe, pah-tat-o. What's done is done. Hope you guys enjoyed this, 'cause I did sorta. Tell me what you thought/think. (:  
>Until next time,<strong>

_**Yr Alban.**_

**P.S. The song is **_**Shake it Out**_** by Florence and the Machine.**


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